Darkshines
by Ithilwen C. Malfoy
Summary: HD slash: "You make me sick, because I adore you so." Draco struggles with his demons, recites poetry and contemplates a fallen angel.


Author: Ithilwen C. Malfoy

Rating: Espresso PG-13; strong and dark

Pairing: H/D

POV: Draco.

Disclaimer: As always, J.K. Rowling writes and I subvert. I own none of the characters or concepts, which are all property of the said Ms. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Books, etc. The title 'Darkshines' and some of the sentences contained in this fic are property of Muse, who provided the inspiration. '_You are my North, my South, my East and West' _and_ 'The stars… any good' _are from W.H. Auden's poem 'Funeral Blues', which you may recognise as That Poem from 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'.

Notes: Hugs and kisses to Screamingflower for the encouragement and the Moulin Rouge e-cards.

Darkshines

It's early morning, that time when everything is grey and you're always still asleep. What a picture we must make, you and I, lying here in a tangle of limbs and sheets. Our skin exactly the same shade of pale, but your dark hair and my blonde are so… perfect. A Malfoy appreciates beauty. And you, my fallen angel, are so disgustingly, perfectly beautiful. 

You forgot to clean off all the mud and gore from the day's fighting before you came here – you missed a bit just under your chin and above your left eye. You look so perfectly ravished, so utterly debauched with your hair over your face and your lips bitten and your eyes closed, and that infuriating _beautiful_ hateful smile. If I picked up my wand it'd be over in seconds, you'd never make me feel this again – You whimper and roll closer. You've always been one for subconscious cuddling, not that you'd ever admit it. Not that I'd ever bring it up. I brush a piece of hair from the corner of your mouth absently. 

It's still jet black. It's unusual to find such genuinely black hair, hair that isn't just dark brown or in a cunning chemical disguise. I find myself playing with it sometimes, in these quiet, still times when you're asleep. The peace in your face in these times still makes the anger rise in my throat – why should _you_ find release when I'm still fighting a war? When you're using a man who hates you for sex because it's convenient and because he lets you. I disgust myself.

And so do you. _You make me_ _sick_, because I adore you so. I have to have you inside me, against me. When you come here you make the world spin faster, you make the sun shine brighter and _goddamnit_, I hate you for it. How dare you presume to make me need you? 

And how dare you let me need you? I know you know I was there when we stuck your Werewolf full of silver and watched him die. Just as I know that you killed Lucius. I asked you about it once. 

"Did you smile when you killed Lucius?" I said. It was, I admit, inopportune timing. "When you cursed my father, did you laugh?"

You froze. Then you pulled out, fastened your trousers and left me hard and aching and hating you. But you came back. 

"No," you said. "He looked too much like you." And when you came, you were crying.

Always, in the split second after you kiss me I see the anger in your eyes, the hatred, the desire to rip my heart from my chest and watch me bleed. And I know you see it in my eyes, too. I know more about you than you'd ever think, my self-destructive angel, much more. 

I watch from the window when you come here, just to see the nervous glance before you open the door. It's charmed to let you in when you stroke it. Ironic, really. I know you cried the night they found Snape, because I saw you at the end of the path, leaning against a tree with your head in your hands. Your eyes were red when you came in and I took off your glasses and kissed your face, and you looked so surprised and so relieved. And I was almost tender. 

I listened to you sobbing quietly into your pillow afterwards, and I let you hold me and you shook against me with your head on my shoulder and I stroked your hair.

"If I'd known…" I said. I felt the need to offer you something.

You nodded, and then you just looked at me with those terrible, innocent eyes, "What if it had been me?"

I owed you more than to feign ignorance. So I thought about it. And I gave you the only answer I knew I'd want: "I would never let anybody kill you but me."

You nodded, and I couldn't bear to see you cry, so I closed my eyes and kissed you. 

How can you make me feel like this? I hate you. I've hated you since you rejected me in favour of a Weasley… I can't bear the thought of him laughing with you, sleeping in the same room as you, being with you all the time… While I was forced to seethe quietly from across a crowded hall. I hated him, possibly more than I hated you. Because he had you, and I never will.

I'm under no illusions. I know that this war will end. One or both of us will be dead… or we'll both survive and this desperate, trembling equilibrium will tip and you won't come here anymore. And I'll make my excuses to the Ministry, perhaps get married – who the fuck am I trying to fool? Not you, my rejected angel, you know as well as me that it's only a matter of time... until the end comes. And I won't be ready. 

I'll never be ready for the end. _I'll never be ready to let you go._

You've cut your name in my heart, and I don't know how to make it disappear. I don't even know anymore whether I want it to. How can I make you stay? I'd destroy the world for you. _You are my North, my South, my East and West_… I'm speaking fucking poetry to you. How have you done this to me? How have you made me fall –

You're beginning to wake up. I could pick up my wand and make sure you never do. And then you'd always be mine. But it's too late, your eyes are opening, and I close mine. I breathe slowly, evenly. 

"Draco?" you whisper. You always call me by my given name, but I never call you by yours. You are silent for a moment, and then you move, lifting your hand from my chest and untucking your leg from between mine. The room is already getting colder. I can feel the temperature dropping as you move away. 

Rustles of clothes being pulled on as quietly as you can manage. It's strangely touching that you try not to wake me. Or maybe it hurts that you don't want to. I could shatter the pretence by opening my eyes, but I won't. I'm waiting until I hear the sound of the door clicking shut. 

Instead, there's a creak of bed springs and the mattress dips next to me. What are you doing? Are you staying until I wake up? Can I keep you here all night and all day if I pretend to sleep through them? 

And then suddenly you're leaning over me. I know because I can smell you. Oh God, I can feel your breath on my lips. Why are you doing this to me? Why can you not just – I can't think anymore, not now that your lips are on mine and you're winding you fingers in my hair and pressing me back against the pillows. You run your tongue along my bottom lip and I'm only human. I open my mouth, I let you kiss me desperately, bruisingly, as though you're trying to forget that you're going to have to let me go, before we both suffocate. 

And the words are running through my head, something screaming _This__ is what I want! To wake up to this every day for the rest of my life! _And I know that you can feel it as I cling to you, and you pull away from me. 

I keep my eyes closed, it's easier for both of us. You can go, and this won't be spoken of again, because I'm asleep and you're not really here. Now comes the click of the door opening. And a pause. 

"Draco," you whisper. My lip is bleeding. "Oh God, this is ridiculous… Draco." But I don't open my eyes. You take a deep breath, I can hear it hitching and catching in your throat, even from the other side of the room. "I'm being moved to a safe house tomorrow. Away from here," I know you're crying. I hate it. Stop it, for God's sake, stop it. I don't want to hear you say this.  "I won't be able to…  I don't know if… _shit_."

The door slams. 

I can't breathe. I'm trying to breathe, _why can't I breathe_? Is this dying, lying here in the dark gasping for each shuddering breath and feeling the -_crack_- of my heart breaking? I could run after you, I could tell you, kiss you, beg you until you're back inside with me. But I'm not going. I'm lying here in the fucking dark with my mind feeling like it's collapsing, seeing you walk away down the path, past the willow tree and the dead rose bush, and remembering the rest of the poem:

_The stars are not wanted now; put out every one; _

_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_

_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; _

_For nothing now can ever come to any good._

_~~~~~_


End file.
